r . . ."

"Oh stop, Paul, for Heaven's sake!" said his mother.

Through the smoke and smell and heat, the sensation of her underclothing
sticking hotly to her limbs, the constant dogging fear and excitement
that beset her, and the causeless twanging of her nerves, there traveled
to her brain, along a channel worn smooth by the habit of her thought
about the children, the question, "What is it that makes Paul care so
much about this?" And the answer, almost lost in the reverberation of
all those other questions and answers in her head, was, "It comes from
what is best in Paul, his feeling of personal responsibility for the
welfare of others. That mustn't be hindered." Aloud, almost
automatically, she said, in a neutral tone, "Paul, I don't think I can
do a single thing for you and Henry, but I'll go with you and look at
him and see if I can think of anything. Just wait till I get this and
the potatoes in the fireless cooker."

Paul made a visible effort, almost as though he were swallowing
something too large for his throat, and said ungraciously, "I suppose I
ought to help you in here, then."

"I suppose so," said his mother roughly, in an exact imitation of his
manner.

Paul looked at her quickly, laughing a little, sheepishly. He waited a
moment, during which time Mark announced that he was going out to the
sand-pile, and then said, in a pleasant tone, "What can I do?"

His mother nodded at him with a smile, refrained from the spoken word of
approbation which she knew he would hate, and took thought as to what he
might do that would afflict him least. "You can go and sweep off the
front porch, and straighten out the cushions and chairs, and water the
porch-box geraniums."

He disappeared, whistling loudly, "Massa's in the cold, cold ground."
Marise hoped automatically that Elly was not in earshot to hear this.

She felt herself tired to the point of exhaustion by the necessity
always to be divining somebody's inner processes, putting herself in
somebody's else skin and doing the thing that would reach him in the
right way. She would like, an instant, just an instant, to be in her own
skin, she thought, penetrated with a sense of the unstable equilibrium
of personal relations. To keep the peace in a household of young and old
highly differentiated personalities was a feat of the Blondin variety;
the least inattention, the least failure in judgment, and opportunities
were lost forever. Her sense of the imperman